


My dear Corvo, sweetest gift

by HeirOfRage



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Betrayal, Body Image, Body Worship, Bottom The Outsider (Dishonored), Human Sacrifice, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Low Chaos Corvo Attano, M/M, Outsider steals Corvo away, Poisoning, Ritual Sex, Sexual Content, and saves him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 22:52:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11217912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeirOfRage/pseuds/HeirOfRage
Summary: He doesn't expect it when his comrades turn their backs on him and deliberately poison him. What's for the worse, they bind him and offer him as a sacrifice to the heretic God. It looks like the God has other plans for him, though, and rather than accepting his death, the Outsider decides to keep him for his own.





	My dear Corvo, sweetest gift

**Author's Note:**

> 'Time sets back into motion, silver hits bare stone. Three angry screams echo.  
> Somewhere, the Outsider laughs, and with him, laughs his new lover, given to him by the vermin of Dunwall. '

Following the recent success in what one could call a ‘good business’, Havelock invited their whole gang for a round at the ratty pub just a little from their little conspiracy hideout. Havelock together with the disgraced Lord Pendleton and newly named Watcher Martin walk closely-knit together at the head of the group, closely followed by Wallace, Lydia, Callista and tripping Cecelia. The tail of the group consists of Corvo and old boatman Samuel, who is frowning into the distance, watching the sky darken as night approaches quickly.

The pub is fairly empty inside and Corvo can immediately guess why. Shady, run-down interior, and cheap drinks - 1 part ale, 2 parts water. No doubt purchased from Slackjaw, he is an expert at watering down just about everything that can be, including medicine sold at outrageous prices. What a clown.

Off to the side, Havelock slips into a booth, shifting so all of the ‘Loyalists’ can sit down around the table like one big family. That’s why he chooses to sit at the very edge of the bench, remaining silent as Havelock orders everyone ale, turning to Corvo once the server disappears.

“And none of this would be possible without you, Corvo. We shall drink to you!”

With a snort, Corvo brushes his long hair out of his face, shaking his head. No, no, he hardly deserves this. Although the gesture is somewhat appreciated.

In a few minutes, their refreshments arrive and get distributed among the members. Toasts and cheers are made, the ale is drunk. Nobody notices when Cecelia disappears. Nobody notices when Wallace passes out, nor when Lydia hurriedly leaves the table and never comes back.

Samuel does notice when Corvo staggers. Dark beady eyes surrounded by wrinkles form a frown and he reaches over the table to grasp his shoulder.

“I just need some air,” Corvo rasps out, getting up from the table, making a break for the main door, walking out into the crisp cold night.   
Breathing becomes a chore. Not enough oxygen reaches his brain. He’s falling.

When he comes to, he is lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Cavern of black stone bathed in blue and purple hues. He tries to move but finds himself restrained by chains, hands, and legs bound to the stone under him. He too, like the cave, is clad in deep purples, the material undoubtedly soft and expensive, wrapping around his body like a makeshift cover but in the form of a toga.

With a hiss, he tugs at the restraints but finds them impossible to break. That snake Havelock-- turning to his right, he finds Samuel standing there, looking down at him with sad eyes.

“Not you too..” he spits between bared teeth and the boatman looks away in shame.

“I’m sorry Corvo, I-- I wanted to warn you, I really did, but he would have killed me too. Wallace and Lydia are dead, Cecelia is missing, Callista is…..safe, Havelock said he owes as much to her uncle, Curnow--”

The bound man tsks, turning away from Samuel in spite. The old man accepts it, turning on his heel as he walks away only to inform the remaining three snakes. They appear almost as soon as Samuel is gone, Pendleton on his left side, Havelock on his right and Martin lounging by the far wall. Corvo follows his silhouette, finding himself staring at a shrine. Intricately made, with care and expensive trinkets adorning the luxurious fabric as well as something Corvo can only perceive as bones from such a distance. Hopefully, he is wrong for once.

Martin eventually comes back, cradling a lantern of heavenly blue fire, the brightest teal there is, setting it down next to Corvo’s stiff body. Pendleton clears his throat, raising a script up to his small eyes, clearly squinting at the paper in dim light. Then he opens his mouth, filling the cavern with difficult foreign words that bounce off the wall. Off to the side Havelock draws a short, silver blade, holding it out in the lantern’s light for Corvo to see. Both of his gloved hands grasp the handle, lifting the offending object up as high as his muscles allow him to.

And then he brings it down. Corvo shuts his eyes tightly, bracing for whatever sick end awaits him. And he waits. But nothing happens. He dares to open one eye slowly, the other following once he notices that the three men are stuck in time, looking like mere statues carved into fine marble.

He is forced to turn away once the purple glow intensifies and for a moment is substituted with calming blue and a figure emerges from the foggy set-up. Remarkably tall and young, the man steps forward, walking around the altar, dissolving the men’s statues with a mere flick of his wrist. Corvo notes that the man looks like a victim of drowning - skin pale and ghastly, coloured only underneath his eyes with bruising purple, same as his dark ashen and cracked lips - accounted for signs of hypothermia. The man barely looks older than a shy of 25, thin, underfed, with clothing clinging to him as if wet and heavy.

Corvo doesn’t even get the chance to ask anything, barely opening his mouth, when the stranger leans down and with fingers like ice, trails a line down from his cheekbone, over his jaw and down the column of his neck. The bound man shivers under both the touch and the empty gaze on him, the man’s eyes black and endless like the Void, cold, harsh, unforgiving.

“My dear Corvo,” the man echoes. Even his voice is otherworldly, bouncing around the cavern’s wet walls.

“Such an interesting gift. I can’t say I am disappointed with this offering.”

Corvo scoffs and opens his mouth again. It takes him a while to find his voice and when he does, it comes out harsh, raspy and with a certain amount of difficulty. 

“Who are you? What’s going on?” 

The man’s cracked lips quirk up on one side, a corner raised in a hint of amusement. Corvo thinks that he looks too smug like this but it oddly suits his seamless face without a single blemish, a single pore. Compared to his own - scruffy and covered in many scars, big or small.

“I am known as the Outsider. The God of Void. And these lovely gentlemen have brought you to me as a ritual sacrifice to appeal to me so I would bestow them with my attention and favour. But they are hardly worth it. You, on the other hand..” he trails off, curious, smooth fingers splaying open like spider webs to cover more ground as his hand trails over Corvo’s scar-littered chest, poking and prodding at each, blunt nails digging into them, leaving behind a feeling as if Corvo was bitten by frost.

“And now you are mine to observe and to play with. I wonder - can you hold my attention long enough? I hate being bored and do not take kindly to those who bore me.”

The outsider reaches out, breaking the chains binding his gift to stone, sitting back on the slab to watch him with amusement. At first, he deems him predictable - Corvo will attempt to either assault him or try running. It’s happened before, so it wouldn’t be a surprise.

Ah, but of course, Corvo is special. Everyone knows that. He doesn’t attack. He doesn’t run. He sits up, cracking his bones, rubbing sore wrists marked by unforgiving metal and then he gazes at the God watching him intently. As if he was looking directly at his soul.

“What….what exactly is my role..as a gift?” Corvo asks, silently for the bigger part, inquiring curiously but with a certain level of reservation hinted at. All he can think of is the way the women of the Golden Cat were given as gifts to nobles to indulge them in carnal pleasures, to satisfy and by extension, rob them of their money.

“You are on a good track with your thoughts, my sweet little crow. I want nothing more than you to worship me and surprise me with your actions.”

Ah. There it is. Corvo blanks out for a second, staring at the man as if he had told him that he’ll die in 20 minutes. He just might.

“Okay..” he simply states, looking down at his rough, ruined hands. Should he be touching a God with hands like these? Hands that are covered in the blood of many, hands that are hated by many, hands that were choking a man just earlier this morning.  
He looks back at the deity who is currently sitting in front of him, cross-legged and waiting for Corvo’s actions with patience. 

He says no more, moving closer. He lifts his hands, waiting for a silent permission from the God. Once he gets a nod, his skilled fingers work at the buckles and clasps of the Outsider’s dark jacket, carefully undoing one by one, and then removing the article from his shoulders and arms, setting it aside on a rock. 

Eyes trail over the flawless expanse of skin, hands eager to touch and claim, mouth eager to leave a mark on the milky white skin. And so he succumbs, gives in to the primal instinct at the back of his head, forgetting about questioning himself if he should, if he can. 

Ruined hands touch the pale skin, feeling the cold surface with certain gentleness, getting rougher as they pass the Outsider’s chest, ghost over his ribs and grab at his narrow bony hips. Momentarily, his (undoubtedly dirty) nails dig into those bones to feel them before moving on, ghosting over his thighs as the Outsider unfolds his legs and instead stretches them on either side of Corvo. He takes the initiative, forcing the heavy leather boots from the man’s feet. He shifts, hands grabbing the God’s boyish hips again, pulling him closer only so that he could be laid down across the altar as well. This allows him to strip the God off his pants and Corvo holds his breath as the rough fabric passes over bones, revealing more and more skin. Skin he wants to see marked, skin that is hypnotising him with its perfection, skin that invokes possessiveness in him.

He discards the clothing aside, finally leaning down, hovering above him on all four, his hair falling into his face. It’s surprising how quiet the God is remaining, simply observing Corvo’s actions and probably silently judging him for every breath he takes. 

The assassin wishes to prove him wrong. And he will. 

With newfound determination he leans down, pressing his chapped lips to the sharp jaw, his mouth worshipping the skin beneath as it passes over the edge and moves down the column of his neck, stopping only to press harder against it, waiting and wanting to see if there is a pulse, if even the God has a heart to judge him by. 

After a while, he feels a brief and barely there thud. It’s nothing much, but it does the trick for the time being and he makes it his goal to make the beat more apparent, faster, harder. He sucks on the spot to mark it for a later purpose, pulling away to see if the skin is able to bruise, just like regular skin. It does, to his delight and he continues, moving over sharp-cut collarbones, dragging his tongue over the bone and dips around it. The Outsider exhales just a tad bit louder near his ear.

“Does this please you?” He questions against the cool skin silently, voice breathy and warm despite the fact that that he can slowly feel his body temperature drop.

“You tell me.” That’s the only answer he gets from the God. It’s hardly satisfying and makes him growl glutteraly at the back of his throat. Is this how the game shall be played? Well then so be it.

More kisses get spread over the smooth skin. Corvo decides that it feels like kissing a stone wall. The God is as responsive as one too, but at least he is aesthetically pleasing and that cannot be said about most walls.

His next stop is at the Outsider’s hips, tongue mapping out the dips of his flesh, the bones sticking out from under his skin. It’s the second place he marks, with sharp canines tugging at the sensitive skin over the bone. Bone pierces epithelium, sinks in flesh and draws blood. Blood a black ichor, thick like tar, sweet like honey on his tongue in contrast to the salty skin. The aftertaste tastes like decay in his mouth.

And then he moves lower, passing the apparent hardness, just barely letting it brush across his warm skin, causing another sharp intake from his unresponsive subject of worship. Almost disappointing.

So mouth finds skin and flesh again, kissing at first to map out the new area, tongue licking the salty flavour. It’s like tasting an ocean. Corvo decided that he likes the taste more than the honey sweet tar, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to taste it again. He bites and marks another patch of skin, this time getting more skin and flesh into his mouth, leaving blue and purple bruises underneath, admitting that they match the drapes around his body well.

Once he remembers that, he reaches down, pulling the rich fabric loose from his waist, revealing himself to the God fully. He then stretches the fabric over the altar, moving to sit on it, grabbing the God’s hands. He pulls him up to a sitting position and then straight to his lap, where the black haired youth settles on top of his thighs, their hardnesses touching just barely. 

While the Outsider takes the silent initiative to run his hands over Corvo’s muscled arms, the man underneath grabs them both into his calloused hand, squeezing and pulling.   
Now that they are mostly on the same level, he can watch the God’s face - how his lips part to sharply intake air, jaw flexes, hollow eyes drink in the sight of the mortal’s foreign body. 

Cold hands once again trace his scars and marks, blunt nails raising red welts on his sun-kissed Serkonan skin as they drag down his chest and over to his abdomen, then go back up, this time palm-first, soft skin tickled by the small amount of dark hair on his abdomen and chest.

Dark eyes return back to the assassins face, face seen so many times on wanted posters, stopping at every small dent in his skin and at last, his lips.

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?” The deity asks and it’s Corvo’s turn to raise his brows in amusement. Uh-oh, someone is pouting!

“Why haven’t you asked me to do so? I was under the impression that you’d rather have me beg for it, instead of wanting me to just go for it. Although, I am sure you already know that I am a man who doesn’t beg. Nor for death, forgiveness, nor pleasure,” he gives a low grunt when his fingers catch the head of his cock and he squeezes, making the Outsider straighten his back and rock his hips into his hand.

“Begging is boring, predictable. Do something fun, my dear Corvo. Don’t put your opportunities to waste - I know you don’t do that either.”

He doesn’t need to speak to let the Outsider know that it’s exactly what he is thinking right now. It’s convenient.

With slight uncertainty, he leans in, pressing his lips against those of a drowned man, tasting salt and seaweed. The God complies, tilting his head and parting his lips for his lover, hands ghosting back up strong forearms, gripping the biceps’ tightly, round nails leaving crescent-shaped marks in the tough skin.

Tongues meet halfway, smooth and cold sliding against rough warm one, making both men grunt silently. One of Corvo’s hands leaves the Outsider’s hips, wandering to his spine and lower, poking and prodding curiously until he feels the nails in his arms dig deeper, muscles tensing. 

The black-haired man lifts his hips a little, rocking them back against the invading finger, then fingers, his sharp teeth piercing his devotee’s lower lip, drawing warm blood on which he greedily sucks until there is none left.

He cannot say he has found himself participating in such actions many times, there was a time or two, but no more. It took a lot of persuasion too and yet...here he is, letting this mortal touch him, invade him, worship him. But Corvo isn’t just a mortal. He is special, fascinating. Flatteringly unique. A man who will one day single-handedly tear down and then raise an Empire anew.

It’s a new kind of exciting.

He barely registers the fingers doubling but his body does, a lone wail leaving his mouth, echoing like the calling of a whale or a desperate need for more. The man beneath him chuckles, abused lips pressing to nonexistent pulse once again, feeling and biting more, trying to coax more sounds and new reactions from the stoic deity. He feels another thud, two, three; against the bones far too visible through skin, like waves crashing against sharp cliffs. Corvo decides he’s rather fond of that and wants to hear more.

Fingers are removed, causing the deity to look back down at his lover, who grabs at the narrow hips, pulling the pale body against tan, slowly lowering it over his lap. The Outsider braces himself, bony fingers gripping broad shoulders, body slowly being impaled on the hot, hot flesh belonging to the man beneath him. It’s familiar but at the same time not, perhaps a better word would be ‘different’.

Corvo doesn’t wait for the Outsider to say something, doesn’t wait for a nod, nothing, grabbing plump flesh with his large hands, pulling up to lift the weightless body up and then dropping it back down. And repeat, repeat, repeat.

Low guttural groans of the human mix with the God’s whale songs and low musical moans as bones collide and flesh molds into one. The Outsider feels cool like the Void but tight unlike any other while Corvo is pliant, searing hot flesh filling up all the right places, filling up the void.

Bony knees dig into velvet spread over stone, bracing against it so the body could move on its own accord, up and down on the warmth filling it. More and more sounds fill the cave as they become one for the time being, mouth finding one another in a lip-bruising kiss, teeth painfully clinking together.

Neither is sure which one of them succumbs to the pleasure first, maybe both at once, each letting out their final calls in unison, slumping against each other. Corvo pants against the Outsider’s neck, forehead against the tendons. And he listens, hearing the faintest thump, thump, the crashing of waves, the songs of whales.

After a good while, he lifts the God up until he slips out, then sets him back down on his thighs, arms comfortably wrapped around the nimble waist, ruined fingers tracing vertebrae.

The Outsider caresses Corvo’s face, the line of his brow, the bridge of his nose, the slight stubble, the scar running over his upper lip.

“Come with me, my dear Corvo,” he voices, icy breath ghosting over his cheek. He is met with no protest as he lifts the larger man up into his arms, wrapping him in the ratty velvet. Together, they disappear into the Void.

Time sets back into motion, silver hits bare stone. Three angry screams echo.  
Somewhere, the Outsider laughs, and with him, laughs his new lover, given to him by the vermin of Dunwall.

**Author's Note:**

> I am the sinner.


End file.
